


where our dreams go (there we will follow)

by whyyesitscar



Series: Brittana Week [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being famous is great. Santana loves it. The only thing about being famous is that when you're a superstar artist in a high-profile relationship with your superstar fianceé, every magazine ever wants to come to your house and do photoshoots, and photoshoots are not always great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where our dreams go (there we will follow)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day one of Brittana Week (family/future). Inspired by [this](http://anothergayshark.tumblr.com/post/27010912243/billboard-chart-topper-santana-lopez-and-dancer) gifset. Title lyrics taken from "Dreams" by The Temper Trap. (I know you guys want Billie or Our Version of Events, and I promise I'm working on them. But these Brittana Week themes gave me some maaajor feels.)

“Saaaaan, wake up…it’s picture day!”

“I hate picture day,” I mumble. “The photographer always stares at my tits.”

“Not this photographer. He thinks Kurt is really cute.”

“Yeah, well—what?” I open my eyes and turn over to find Brittany sitting next to me in bed, a ridiculously cheerful smile on her face that I would find annoying if she weren’t so cute.

“Hi,” she grins. “Did you think we were still at McKinley?”

I wipe my eyes and blink. “No.”

“Yes, you did,” she argues.

“I was half-asleep.”

“You were sleeping.”

“Has anyone told you you’re a little picky in the mornings?”

“I think you did yesterday.”

“No,” I yawn, pressing my cheek into my pillow. “Yesterday I said you were perky.”

“ _Now_ who’s picky?”

I push lazily against her stomach. “Jerk.”

“Yes, but a loveable jerk who made you coffee.”

“Ooh. I take back the jerk part.”

Brittany laughs and tips her head onto one shoulder. “It’s in the kitchen. I’m gonna go finish getting ready.”

The bed dips as she gets up, but I grab her arm before she can escape. “Hold on, you. You’re forgetting something.”

Brittany grins, wide and happy with her tongue poking out between her teeth. “What?” she asks, even though I know she knows the answer.

“Come here, you big goof,” I say in lieu of an answer, tugging her in closer for a kiss. Coffee is great, but Brittany always tastes better in the morning. She laughs against my lips and I can feel the vibrations travel all the way down to my knees. “Are you sure we have to do this thing today? This bed is really comfy and they could always come back later.”

“They could,” Brittany agrees, “but today is later because that’s what you said three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks ago I had a terrible hangover and cramps.”

“And you don’t today,” she replies, pulling away with one last peck, “so get up, grab some coffee, and help me clean before they get here.”

“Britt, we’re shooting outside,” I whine. “We don’t need to clean the whole house.”

“I’m sure some pictures of our house will end up on the internet somehow. Do you want Quinn tweeting you about the pile of old newspapers in the den?”

“She wouldn’t have to if we didn’t have so many old newspapers. Who even gets the paper anymore?”

“People who like comics or need wrapping paper,” Brittany answers. “Or, in my case, both,” she says, dancing out of the room.

“You know, they make actual wrapping paper, babe,” I say as I follow her at a decidedly more sluggish pace.

“I can’t hear you,” she sings from the kitchen, wiping counters and putting away plates. “Not until you start speaking fun.”

“Nothing’s fun before 8:00,” I grumble.

Brittany just holds up a mug. “Coffee?” she offers.

I take it from her and inhale deeply.

“Coffee.”

/

Let me tell you something about my life: I love fame. I love being famous. I just hate being in the public eye. If I had my way, I’d still be this famous. I’d still be this happy with Brittany. Maybe we’d still live in LA. But no one would ever bug us or ask to do photoshoots at our house because I am Santana motherfucking Lopez and they would just _know_.

But this isn’t McKinley anymore and I can’t afford to intimidate almost everyone because for every piece-of-shit paparazzo who wants to document every part of my life, there are ten insecure girls who are looking to me to validate what they’re feeling. So even though it may take me four weeks, when _Cosmo_ says they want to do a spread for an article on power couples, I’ll always say yes. 

(Because there are little girls in small towns all over America who read _Cosmo_ the way other kids read books, and maybe if they’d known that they could grow up to get the girl, they wouldn’t be so insecure.)

The photographer shows up just after ten and he doesn’t bring a huge crew, so I guess that’s a plus. Brittany tells me that he knows Kurt and of course he does, because every gay or sexually-ambiguous man in the entertainment industry knows Kurt. His name is Philippe and he sounds French but doesn’t look it, so that’s good. He also seems to be a bigger fan of Brittany’s than a fan of mine, which is even better.

I know the magazine is here for me mostly—I have albums and singles and a huge tour coming up. But Brittany is famous too; she might not be a household celebrity, but when I mention my fiancée’s name to anyone in the business, I get wide eyes and reverent gasps. I may be a star, but Brittany is the sun. If I’m Ellen, Brittany is Portia, and Portia’s quiet power is really what keeps that relationship going.

Hair and makeup don’t take as long as I’d like, because I’m still nursing my second cup of coffee and I could really use at least ten minutes to shut my eyes. But I don’t get them, so I just let myself relax into makeup brushes and sponges. I catch Brittany staring at me when Philippe says he wants to have a chat before we start. She doesn’t need to blush after ten years of loving me, but she does anyway.

Philippe has to clear his throat at least three times before I finally give him my attention. If Brittany and I are in the same room, everyone else has to learn some goddamn patience.

“Here’s how I want today to work,” Philippe begins. “Very simple, very easy. No mess. You do a photoshoot with me for, well, one hour, maybe two. Then reapply makeup if you need it before the interview with Elizabeth”—I see Brittany smile as he flubs some consonants so I reach between our chairs and lightly swat the back of her hand—“and that should not take so long. _Et voil_ _à!_ We are done before you know it.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Except you missed the part where you all stay for dinner,” Brittany adds.

Philippe is quick to deflect. “Very generous, Ms. Pierce, but—”

“Come on, Philippe, I’ll tell you embarrassing high school stories about Kurt,” she needles. “I can do my interview first and then I’ll make something really quick. I know an awesome pasta dish that can feed, like, twelve armies.”

“Well—”

“You like ziti, right? Everyone likes ziti.”

“Okay, okay,” Philippe finally relents. “We will stay.”

“Good.” Brittany smiles and squeezes my hand when I roll my eyes. “C’mon, San, you love my ziti.”

“I have to, when it’s the only thing you can make,” I tease.

“All the more reason for me to make it a lot,” she teases back.

I hope it’s okay that most of these pictures involve some serious making out, because it’s going to happen if Brittany keeps looking at me like that.

/

Over an hour later and there is no macking to be had. It’s a pretty chill shoot, just Britt and I goofing off basically. Philippe poses us to start but by the end we’re just sitting on the grass and talking; or Brittany’s scooping me up and throwing me over her shoulder; or I’m stealing kisses to the underside of her chin because that’s her secret tickle spot. I don’t really notice the camera going off anymore until one of the crew goes to move an umbrella or tell us to get out of the shade.

Years in front of cameras have gotten me used to them. I guess it was only inevitable that I’d eventually get comfortable, too.

“Just a couple more, ladies!” Philippe calls out.

I nudge Brittany’s shoulder and point to the window. “Looks like Maurice wants in.”

Maurice is our cat. He is skinny, orange, and almost two years old. But he looks like my grandpa and moves even slower, so his name is Maurice. Brittany gets mad if I call him Moe. He answers to it anyway.

Brittany makes Philippe wait while she grabs Maurice and he stays for the last few frames. I’d bet Berry’s two Tony’s that he’ll be in a picture that makes the spread.

Fucking Maurice, man.

/

It’s almost four by the time we start the interviews. Britt found the hose and made sure that we had to redo our makeup, and if it weren’t for her laughter Philippe would be glaring daggers at both of us. But screw Philippe; it’s summer in California and we’ve been sweating outside for more time than anyone should. Anyway, Britt made sure the water was pointed toward his face and away from any equipment. She did him a favor, really.

But still, I guess it can’t hurt to offer him a spare shirt. I’ve got a few of Puck’s old band shirts from when we repainted some of the house. Hope Philippe’s a Styx fan.

Brittany gets her makeup redone and chats with the chick from _Cosmo_ , Elizabeth Vargas. I never read the articles anymore and I definitely don’t pay attention to who writes them, but Philippe is hot shit when it comes to photography, Britt and I are hot shit all the time, so I can only assume that Elizabeth is hot _Cosmo_ shit, too.

I squeeze her shoulders lightly while she’s getting her eyes done so she doesn’t jump and ruin everything. “Babe, I’m gonna get Philippe a shirt and chop some veggies or something, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want me to turn the oven on?”

“Yeah, 400.”

“I know.” She tells me every time but I never correct her.

“Don’t forget Maurice,” she calls as I’m halfway to the house.

I walk as quietly as I can around her so she doesn’t catch me. “Wasn’t going to,” I say when I’m far enough behind.

“Yes, you were,” she laughs.

“You know I’d never forget Moe,” I say as I pass by her again.

“His name’s Maurice!” Brittany shouts.

“I can call him Moe, or I can wait to turn the oven on!” I call back as I step in the kitchen. I wait a moment, listening for her response. “Yeah, that’s what I _thought_ ,” I murmur. She probably just didn’t hear me, but I rarely get to win when it comes to Brittany.

Not that I mind.

I open up the windows as I move around the kitchen—partly because it’s stuffy, but mostly because on a good day, conversations from the backyard will carry really well. Brittany will probably butt in on my interview, so it’s only right that I get to eavesdrop on hers.

The conversation fades in and out as I hover between the fridge and the counter. The warm-up banter is nothing, full of Brittany’s usual charm as she tells Elizabeth that she only did the shoot because I’m hot. If Elizabeth asks me the same question, that’s going to be my answer, too.

It’s when the questions get a little more serious that my chopping gets quieter.

“Tell me about Santana,” Elizabeth prompts.

“How long have you got?” Brittany laughs. “I could talk about Santana forever.”

Elizabeth laughs, too. “Let’s start with the basics, then. You’ve been together since high school, right?”

“Sort of. She graduated a year before me, and we kind of hit a rough patch. Distance is hard for everyone, I think.”

“Did you think you’d get back together at that point?”

“Yeah,” Brittany says after a long moment. I can’t see her from where I’m standing, but I know she’s nodding her head, too. I even know _how_ she’s nodding, that gesture that looks more like a scoop than a bob. “I knew we weren’t done. I’ll never be done with Santana. She’s stuck with me for good.”

“So, ten years down the line—you’ve got a nice house, you’re choreographing or you’re touring…”

“And I’ve got Santana, yeah,” Brittany finishes. “In ten years I see myself…married. Happy. A little more settled, you know?”

“Speaking of married...” I can tell by Elizabeth’s tone of voice that she’s noticed Brittany’s ring. Brittany proposed about a month ago and we’ve kept it secret. It isn’t the public’s business how we love each other. I don’t need small-town hicks judging us or talking shit; I got enough of that in high school. But this shoot kind of makes it impossible, and Brittany keeps telling me there will be a lot more happy and hopeful people than angry ones. When it comes to happiness, I trust Brittany wholeheartedly.

“You noticed, huh?” Brittany jokes.

“Can we talk about it? It’s a beautiful ring.”

“I know, right?” They both laugh. “You know, it was hard, being with Santana in high school. I mean, not hard to _be_ with her, because have you seen her? She’s gorgeous. But kids are mean and we were both feeling pressures that didn’t have anything to do with the idea of dating a girl. But now, just the thought that I get to be with Santana for the rest of my life and no one is telling us no…it’s the best feeling ever.”

“What would you say to the girls in high school who are afraid to come out or even confront their feelings?”

“Well,” Brittany pauses, “I don’t know. I don’t like to tell people what to do with their feelings. They’re so personal, you know? But I do know that whatever you’re feeling, it’s always better if you don’t hide it. And I mean, different people share things in different ways. You don’t always have to talk about it. I have a friend who doesn’t know how to process emotions unless she’s singing them. I just—I think if you find something that’s reliable and safe, like, a journal or your favorite club or your best friend, then you’re okay. Everybody needs that one thing.”

“And Santana’s your one thing?”

“No,” Brittany chuckles. “Dancing is my one thing. Santana doesn’t count. She’s just…always Santana.”

“How is that shirt, Ms. Lopez?” Philippe asks from the doorway.

I jump and almost slice three fingers off. “Jesus _fuck_ , Philippe. Not cool.”

“I hate to intrude,” he says, but he smiles too so I bet he doesn’t, “but I am still quite wet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I grab the shirt off of the back of a chair and hand it to him.

“Congratulations, by the way.” Somehow, the well-wishes sound more sincere in his stilted English.

I try to glare at him, but when it comes to the topic of Brittany and marriage it is physically impossible for me to do anything but smile.

By the time the interview is over, I’ve got a whole plate of chopped veggies and three different kinds of fancy sliced cheese.

Being in love makes you do things a lot better.

/

I can barely concentrate on Elizabeth because the sounds and smells of Brittany cooking are some of my favorite things. She talks to herself when she looks for ingredients or when she starts putting things together, and now that Philippe and a couple of the camera guys don’t have anything to do, she’s talking to them as well. There is a lot of laughter coming from the kitchen, and I can’t help smiling.

“You’ve got a wonderful house,” Elizabeth comments.

“What? Yeah, thanks,” I recover. “It’s a little big, with just the two of us, but we both need our studios so I guess that was unavoidable.”

Elizabeth smiles and clicks her pen. I guess I’ve given her an opening for the interview. Although if she doesn’t know how to start asking questions, she’s a pretty crappy journalist.

“Are you excited for your tour? That starts in a couple of weeks.”

“Yeah,” I nod, “I always love performing. You know, I was in show choir in high school and those performances were so high energy. I think my favorite part about touring is that I can set the pace. I’m much more at home with a couple of guitars and a piano than eleven other singers.”

“Any surprises planned for the tour?”

“If I told you, they wouldn’t be surprises.”

Elizabeth laughs. “Well, I know Rachel Berry brought an old friend on stage at one of her shows to recreate a duet they performed in high school.”

“Yeah, and if I remember correctly, that was the duet that lost us Nationals.”

“You went to high school with Rachel Berry?”

“I know; I can’t believe I turned out this sane after four years with her, either.” I lean closer and look at the cameras instead of Elizabeth. “If you’re watching, Berry, I still have the voodoo doll tucked away in the attic somewhere.”

Elizabeth laughs again. “This is going to be a print article, Santana.”

I shrug. “When it comes to Rachel Berry, you can’t ever be too careful.”

“So no Brittany on the tour,” Elizabeth smiles.

I shake my head. “No, we have our separate lives.  She’s doing some amazing choreographing on a couple of different music videos—”

“Yours?” Elizabeth interrupts.

“God, no,” I laugh. “If we spent that much time together every day, we’d never want to speak again. You know, it’s nice doing different things. Makes for better dinner conversations.”

“So this is the first shoot you’ve done together.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I’ve been very, very excited about this. Well,” I amend, “Brittany might tell you that I’m grumpy in the mornings, but once I woke up enough, I was definitely excited.”

“Do you think you’ll do more in the future?”

I pause, thinking. “I don’t know. I’ve always tried to keep a nice balance between my private life and what’s available to the public. You hear celebrities talk about it all the time, but you really do lose something when you become famous. There are times when I miss the anonymity of growing up in the Midwest.”

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I scoff. “I don’t miss it _that_ much.”

“So where do you see yourself in the future? What do you want to be?”

“Honestly?” Elizabeth nods. “I want to be a mom so bad. Yeah, I really want babies.”

Elizabeth smiles. “Brittany said ‘married.’”

I laugh and look over at the kitchen, just in case Brittany can see me. “Of course she did. Well, she did do the proposing so I guess I should be the one doing the planning. Besides, if we don’t have kids she’ll just keep adopting cats, and I can barely tolerate the one.”

“He seems so cute, though!”

I roll my eyes. “He is most of the time, but he has this weird way of waddling everywhere and anytime I try to vacuum, he always waddles right in front of it. He’s a little jerk sometimes.”

“He is not!” Brittany calls from the kitchen.

I laugh and shake my head. “Oh sure, _now_ you can hear me,” I call back.

She just smiles and hangs her head out the window, squinting against the afternoon sun. “Dinner’s ready. Except I’m giving all your pasta to Maurice.”

“He’ll probably throw it up like he does everything else, and then _you’ll_ be stuck cleaning it up.” I turn back to Elizabeth and wince. I’ve probably messed up the end of the interview. “Sorry,” I say. “She’s good at distracting me.”

“It’s alright,” she says, dismissing my concern with a wave of her hand. “We were almost done anyway.”

“I could sit a little longer if you wanted,” I offer.

“Really, it’s fine.”

“Okay.” I get up and stretch my arms, closing my eyes and moving out of the shade. Mid-afternoon sun is my favorite because it reminds me of high school, when Brittany and I would come home from Cheerios practice, completely wiped, and just crash on my bed. I’d have my back to the sun streaming in through my window, and Brittany hugging my front, and those are still the best naps I’ve ever taken. Five-o’clock sun is warm because of Brittany.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I ask Elizabeth.

“Can I ask you more questions?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s called having a conversation, so sure.”

“On the record?”

“Absolutely.”

Elizabeth stops in the doorway, surprised. “Really?”

“No freaking way.”

/

The article comes out a month later. Brittany comes home waving a copy of _Cosmo_ and she reads our bits even though I just want to look at the pictures. The interview is really watered down but when you spend a good chunk of time talking about your cat, I guess you have to edit a lot. Brittany finally hands me the magazine and I smile because she looks gorgeous in all of the pictures.

She picks up Maurice and shows him the spread because of course he’s in the biggest photo. Five minutes later Rachel calls and grills me on what I mentioned to Elizabeth, even though the only mention of Rachel in the article is her name. Brittany giggles incessantly until I stop rolling my eyes.

I think I can wait a little longer before we host a photographer again.


End file.
